


we're all (not) going on a summer holiday

by jenna221b



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Post-Scene: Rome 41 AD (Good Omens), Post-Scene: The Ritz (Good Omens), Sharing a Bed, a little bit of angst courtesy of the '60s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:14:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26071726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna221b/pseuds/jenna221b
Summary: Aziraphale balks. “I beg your pardon?” Really, imagine having to introduce a demon to the concept of plausible deniability. “We are doing nothing of the sort. This is… a purely observational excursion.”Or: five times they were most definitely not on holiday, and one time they were.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 137





	1. Chapter 1

> **i. Rome, 41 A.D.**

By the time they have finished their oysters and wine, leisurely leaving Petronius’s, the height of the mid-day sun has blissfully been avoided. It’s still warm enough, pleasantly so; and Aziraphale admires how everything has been cast in an idyllic golden glow.

He also notes that Crowley looks much more at ease. The food and drink seems to have more than succeeded in banishing whatever bad mood had been hanging over him. There’s no longer a strained, pinched sort of look around his forehead and temples, and he smiles easily, losing the bitter, downward twist to his mouth.

By silent agreement, they end up meandering through the forum. Aziraphale can’t help noticing that Crowley’s glasses have slipped down his nose a little. It leaves just enough room for Aziraphale to watch his eyes spark with curiosity at whatever wares are on sale. It is far more interesting than mere people watching.

“So,” Crowley says. They have slowed to a stop at the sight of a clearly popular stall, waiting for the crowds to somewhat disperse. “Are you going to buy that brooch or just think about it longingly?”

Aziraphale jumps. “What—I wasn’t…” His hand darts away from where it had indeed been lingering over a brooch—bronze wings. Frankly, it makes no sense as a purchase, none at all, especially when he is already wearing a gold pair. It’s… these are mere trinkets, strictly reserved for humans.

The crowds are thinning. But, before Aziraphale can move forward, Crowley stops him with a light touch to his forearm. “I owe you for the oysters,” Crowley says, as if Aziraphale can’t just miracle up the money for himself.

“Oh, well, in that case—that is, if you insist,” Aziraphale says, and pretends that the sight of Crowley buying the brooch _for him_ doesn’t make his chest flood with warmth. He clears his throat. “And, did the oysters live up to your expectations?”

“ _We-ell_ ,” Crowley hums. “Not had anything to compare it to, angel.” Aziraphale can somehow already tell that this response is a wind-up. “What’s your review?”

“Oh, they were perfection, of course,” Aziraphale says. And then, because he can, because the day has been very fine indeed, he adds, “ _Ineffable_ perfection.”

Crowley laughs. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Why, it certainly does, it means—”

Crowley rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “Oh, for—I _know_ what it means. S’just a contradiction, isn’t it? One day, something will come along that’s so perfect, you _have_ to put it into words.”

“My dear fellow, ineffable _is_ a word.”

“ _Other_ words.”

“Just you wait. I’m certain the humans will be using that descriptor in no time.”

“Ah, no miracles! That’s cheating. Besides, thought we were enjoying our time _off_ work.”

Aziraphale balks. “I beg your pardon?” Really, imagine having to introduce a demon to the concept of plausible deniability. “We are doing nothing of the sort. This is… a purely observational excursion.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“Educational, even,” Aziraphale adds. “I hardly know what _you_ are doing, but I am simply recording my earthly findings. All proper administrative work.”

“Alright, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, smirking. He casually throws the brooch across, and when he sees Aziraphale has caught it, scales a stone pedestal with deft grace. “Get up here, and _observe_ the view.”

Aziraphale looks up and— _there_ , how the sun lights up Crowley’s hair, making it look even more vibrant than before, like flickering flames. Aziraphale cannot deny that he looks incredibly… striking.

Oh.

Oh, this is going to be terribly inconvenient.

> **ii. Edinburgh, 1360**

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale says, fighting to be heard over the pub’s clamour. “this is the Sheep Head Inn, yes? Only, I can’t seem to find—”

There’s a very familiar snort to his left. Aziraphale turns and sees Crowley leaning against the bar. “ _Heid,_ angel, give me strength. Could you sound anymore _not_ Scottish?” The complaint probably would have carried more weight if Crowley were not currently swaying a little in place.

“Oh, hark at you,” Aziraphale says, unable to suppress a fond smile. “One drink down, and you’re three sheets to the wind already.”

“Oi! Cheeky.” Crowley rests his head in one hand, and Aziraphale decides it would not be very sporting to point out how his elbow initially slipped off the woodwork. “What about this is _proper administrative work_ , eh?”

Aziraphale sniffs. “If you must know, I am bearing witness to human achievement.”

“Gosh,” Crowley says. “That’s a very poetic way to describe a pub opening.”

“Shush.” Aziraphale half-heartedly swats Crowley on the arm, but ends up having to grip his shoulder lest he should topple over. He fishes out his coin purse. “Dare I ask if you’d like the same again?”

“Oh.” Crowley smiles. “Go on, then, if you insist.”

> **iii. Bristol, 1766**

“You’re late,” Aziraphale greets with traditional bluntness.

“It’s not even started yet!” But, Crowley sidles into his seat quietly enough. That is, until he very loudly whispers, “Have you heard this performance is _illegal?_ ”

“No,” Aziraphale lies.

“It is! They don’t have a Royal Licence yet.”

“I wasn’t aware that was a damnable offence.”

“Hmm, not yet.”

A thought reoccurs to Aziraphale, that he’d forgotten when waiting for Crowley. “Oh, blast,” he says. He rises from his seat. “I’ll just be a tick.”

He returns with two playbills, advertising _The Conscious Lovers_ , amongst other performances. He waves one of the papers pointedly until Crowley takes it from him. Then, in another addition to Aziraphale’s many slips of the tongue, he declares, “Souvenir.”

Crowley’s delighted grin could rival that of the cat who got the cream. “Oh? Careful, or you’ll be implying we’re _tourists_.”

“It’s starting,” Aziraphale retorts. For the sake of his own pride, the curtain does choose that moment to rise.

He half expects Crowley to idly crumple the playbill or even use it as a makeshift fan, like others in the audience. But, just as the performance begins, Crowley very neatly folds the paper in half, and tucks it into his breast pocket.

(Inside Aziraphale’s pocket is a very old bronze brooch).


	2. Chapter 2

> **iv. London, 1941**

Aziraphale has about ten seconds to appreciate the sight of Crowley, swaggering off through the rubble, looking every inch the dashing hero. It’s a very pleasant ten seconds, all in all. And then, Crowley trips, swears, and falls with a spectacular clatter.

Aziraphale thinks the phrase ‘brought back down to earth’ is not quite accurate. Yes, he is very much startled out of the heights of his reverie, but it’s not a nasty bump of a landing. Far from it. In fact, Aziraphale still feels like he’s somewhat floating as he hurries over to Crowley—except now, the demon isn’t an unattainable wonder. And, isn’t that thrilling, the silent rejoicing that Crowley is no longer a mere thought, that Aziraphale can reach out, bridge that regretful decades-long gap and touch him.

And so, Aziraphale gently pulls Crowley to his feet, and uses the movement as an excuse to brush the lingering debris off his shoulders.

“Oh, honestly,” he tuts. But, with how much he is still smiling, it is near impossible for the exasperation to seep into the words. “Like being at the beach in bare feet _indeed_.”

Crowley gingerly rises up onto his tip-toes with a wince, and gives a grin that is probably meant to be rakish (the poor dear). “Shh, don’t spoil it,” he says. “If I concentrate _very hard_ , it just feels like sand. S’like Margate, this.”

Aziraphale eyes their surroundings dubiously. “I’d say the ambience leaves something to be desired.”

Undeterred, Crowley sighs in exaggerated contentment. “Ah, breathe in that sea air, angel.”

“The beach is awfully smoky today, wouldn’t you say?”

As they reach thankfully unblessed cobblestones, the droning of the air-raid siren sounds a little louder with every step. Aziraphale turns, making sure Crowley is steady on his feet, before asking, “What’s that racket, then, in your little scene?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Crowley says, and briefly tilts his glasses down to wink. “Seagulls.”

“You and your imagination,” Aziraphale laughs, overflowing with fondness. Oh, how he has missed the way Crowley looks at the world. After all, it is difficult to turn the heavy things into lightness and laughter, especially alone.

They walk on, still arm in arm, and it is suddenly very easy to imagine that they’re simply walking along the shore. Far from the first time, Aziraphale finds himself wishing that his miracles could work from sheer force of mind alone; that he could deconsecrate an entire church with a thought; that Crowley would be free to walk on sand that would never burn him. If he could, Aziraphale would give him everything.

He’s not aware that he has been half-dreaming, floating back up into that space of silent wonder, until he feels his grip on the bag of books slacken. Aziraphale blinks. Crowley is already moving away, reaching forward to catch the handle.

“Careful,” he says, chuckling. “Thought you wanted to hold onto those. Went to an awful lot of trouble for them, you know.”

“Yes, quite so,” Aziraphale breathes. He doesn’t say anything more. He has the strongest feeling that if he did, the next words out of his mouth would be _Kiss me_.

Crowley passes the bag over. Their hands touch again, and it is somehow even harder to pull away.

“Come on, daydreamer,” Crowley says, with a whisper of a smile. “Let’s get you home.”


	3. Chapter 3

> **Wales, 1966**

At an obscenely early hour in the morning, the shop door is opened with such force that the window panes rattle in protest.

“Wales, angel!” Crowley calls. He props the door open with his hip, far too affected to truly be casual. Behind him, Aziraphale can spy an atrociously parked Bentley, one wheel on the kerb. “Fancy a trip?”

Aziraphale knows how this scenario could all unfold. It is very appealing to snap: their arrangement has been suspiciously stale; Crowley hasn’t been in touch with any temptations for Aziraphale to do in his stead; doesn’t the fool know he’s had Aziraphale worried _sick_.

Yes, he could very well say all that, and a few more choice words besides. And, that would only end with Crowley storming out of the door.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. Another, for good measure. He swallows his fury and his fear. “Alright,” he says.

*

“Nice scarf,” Crowley remarks, as Aziraphale gets into the car.

Oh, is _that_ the game they’re playing? “It’s an ascot,” Aziraphale corrects, just to be contrary.

(He does not mention that he had spent some frantic minutes trying to pin a very old winged brooch to the scarf. But, the silk slipped through his fingers, the clasp unwieldy, and Aziraphale was suddenly brought up short about what, exactly, he was trying to achieve).

“Well.” Crowley tilts his head in consideration—of what, Aziraphale can only guess. “You’re not usually so… y’know.”

 _Maybe, if you were around more often,_ Aziraphale thinks testily, _you would take more notice of my clothing_. Out loud, he says, “How far is it?”

Crowley raps his knuckles against the glove compartment. “Map’s in there,” he says.

*

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, idly watching the moment pass him by. “We were meant to take that last turning.”

“Wh—” Crowley swears, keeps one hand on the steering-wheel while gesturing with the other. “Right, I should have the map.”

“You cannot possibly read a map and _watch the road_ at the same time.”

“I’m good at multi-tasking. Um, hang on…” Crowley slows down a little as they a pass road sign. “No, that can’t be right.”

“Well, I told you, we were _meant_ to take the last—”

“No, but... isn’t this the _other_ side of Wales?”

“What other side of—?”

“You know, the _wrong_ direction from where we’re _meant_ to be going?”

“Ah.” Aziraphale quickly folds the map, lest Crowley also realise that he may have been reading the map slightly unconventionally (upside-down). “Well, how was I supposed to know?”

Crowley snorts. “Thought your lot were good at following directions.”

Aziraphale bristles, and draws himself up in his seat. “Since _Eden_ ,” he says primly, “have you known me to thoroughly follow directions?”

Crowley starts laughing in earnest, and a persistent knot in Aziraphale’s stomach relaxes, just a touch. He can do this, fall back into their old patterns. If Crowley is still laughing, surely nothing is amiss.

Crowley drums on the steering wheel. “Right, we can’t turn back.”

“Excuse me?”

“The other cars,” Crowley says. “They’ll know that we got lost. If I turn around.”

“I think only _your_ car is potentially sentient.”

“Oh, you know what I—the people! We turn around now, we’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

Aziraphale has a half a mind to say something rhyming with ‘clucking bell.’ “Oh, Lord knows, _blending in_ has always been _your_ prerogative.”

“Oi, watch it! Don’t miracle the bloody car, plays merry hell with the paintwork—”

(If a vintage Bentley ever did happen to materialise on the correct road, miraculously squeezing into a traffic jam, no-one was paying enough attention to notice. Perhaps some very bored children suddenly had a much more remarkable tale to tell about what they saw on their summer holidays. Of course, such stories would be greeted with a fond eye-roll. After all, grown-ups rarely notice the really important things).

*

Aziraphale barely has time to process that Crowley has booked a room, that the room has two single beds wedged together (well, that won’t do at all), before Crowley is rushing out of the door again.

“I’ll be back soon!” he says suspiciously breezily. “Sight-see or something! Try a Welsh rarebit.”

“I’m not an ignoramus, Crowley, I’ve already tried it!” Aziraphale calls back. He is torn between his usual protest of _we don’t sight-see, we’re not on_ _holiday_ and _but don’t we do that together?_

*

The thing is, he’s not an idiot. He can only ignore the obvious for so long. It takes barely thirty minutes for Aziraphale to spy the dilapidated, abandoned church. Five seconds to find him. Three seconds to yell, “What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?” One second to storm off, incensed.

*

“Angel! For G—come back!”

Aziraphale keeps walking. This way, at least he can pretend his eyes are just stinging from the wind and the sand. The sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears almost drowns out the waves crashing on the shore. He breathes in the cold air, but it does nothing to quell his anger. _Go away_ , he pleads silently. _Go away before I say something that I don’t mean._ He can’t handle any more silent decades.

But, he keeps hearing Crowley’s uneven, hurrying footsteps behind him. And, it is that, his persistence to stay, after being so damned _elusive_ that makes Aziraphale turn around.

“What were you even—! Actually, I don’t think you were bloody thinking at _all_.”

“Aziraphale, would you just listen—”

“—you drag me along just to pull this _ridiculous_ stunt—”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Instead of _talking_ to me!”

“Don’t you think I’ve _tried_ that!” Crowley yells. And Aziraphale wants to turn around so badly, face the grim sea, just so he doesn’t have to see just how wide and desperate Crowley’s eyes are.

The conversation is within arm’s reach, like a wave beginning to crest. But, Aziraphale’s hands are shaking, the sea air is biting, and he doesn’t want to face it. He’s always known, the danger they’ve been in. He thought that if he played along, just for one day, they could escape it, like humans using a trip to the seaside to forget their troubles.

“You are impossible,” he finishes weakly. “Kindly don’t follow me.”

*

When Aziraphale opens the door to their room, he is greeted by the sight of a double bed. Crowley lies there, unmoving. His eyes are closed, cheek pressed against a pillow. Aziraphale can see plain as day that he is not sleeping.

Aziraphale carefully moves the covers, and settles onto his side of the bed. Crowley remains rigidly still, back turned to him. The seconds drag on. Aziraphale sighs.

They really are a pair of fools.

He shuffles closer until he is close to sharing Crowley’s pillow. The plan had been for all of this to be done in a forced meditative attempt at silence, but Aziraphale can’t stop himself from gasping, “Oh, your feet are _freezing_.”

Crowley snorts. Aziraphale can feel his back shaking with laughter.

“Sorry,” Crowley says. Then, he reaches out, pulls Aziraphale arm around him, and squeezes his hand. “Sorry,” he says again, softly. Sombre.

For a moment, Aziraphale just breathes. “I’m sorry, too,” he whispers. As he does so, his lips brush the nape of Crowley’s neck. He must pretend it’s a coincidental kiss.

*

Just after dawn, they take a conciliatory walk around before heading back to the Bentley. The church is looming in the near distance.

“What was your plan?” Aziraphale asks flippantly. Something within him itches to make a joke about the whole thing, lest he drown under the weight of it again. He nods towards the church. “Skip in and hope for the best?”

Crowley’s lips turn upwards into a tentative smile. “Dunno,” he says.

“Eloquent as ever.”

“Probably break in.”

“It would have already been open.”

“Yeah, but it’s more…well, fun to…” Crowley trails off into a series of non-committal noises. He bends down, and picks up a stone. “Break a window?” he tries, unconvincingly. He throws the stone with a grunt of effort. Aziraphale watches with silent amusement as it lands nowhere near the stained-glass window. It barely hits the overgrown hedge at the gravelled entrance.

“Your aim is abysmal,” Aziraphale says. And then, before Crowley can even voice the temptation, he picks up a stone, and throws. It soars in a steady arc. Two beats later, he hears the distant tinkling sound of smashed glass.

“Oh,” Crowley says. He laughs, a little exhale of surprise. He looks suddenly, inexplicably younger, as if he’s just been told that an angel has given away a flaming sword.

The words rise, unbidden, on Aziraphale’s tongue: _I’ll give you it. Anything you ask. Just…won’t you give me time?_

He swallows. Looks away. “This time, my dear, _you_ are reading the map.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> absolute credit to @mollydobby for the 'Since Eden' directions line that has had me laughing for days and days. Humbles apologies that I couldn't fit anymore of your magnificent ideas in this one, I'll need to work on it XD


	4. Chapter 4

> **+1. London, 2019.**

They are a few steps out of the Ritz when the realisation truly hits Aziraphale. He is just about to turn to Crowley, and say, “To the bookshop, then?” But, instead, all he gets out is an, “ _Oh_.”

They don’t have to go there yet, he realises, dizzyingly. No more furtive meetings. No more watching the clock. They’re free to go anywhere they like.

“Hmm?” Crowley asks. Just as they were leaving the restaurant, he had taken hold of Aziraphale’s hand—he’s now swinging it back and forth ever so slightly, as if this is the way it’s always been. The way it always _should_ have been, Aziraphale thinks.

“Nothing,” Aziraphale replies, with a little laugh. “I was only… let’s go somewhere, shall we?”

“Where to, angel?”

Aziraphale smiles. “Oh, it doesn’t matter where.” He squeezes Crowley’s hand, knowing that where they go has never mattered, only that they were going there together.

They’re rounding the pavement when Crowley grins devilishly. “Open-bus tour?”

“Crowley, I want to _enjoy_ myself, thank you very much.”

Crowley actually giggles. “Cheeky.”

In the end, they simply follow the sun, and talk. Aziraphale thinks that perhaps the greatest miracle is that they have all this time to enjoy wasting together.

At the top of Parliament Hill, they stop and drink in the views in comfortable silence. Aziraphale is struck by the thought that this is possibly the most peaceful he has ever felt.

After some long, blissful moments, Aziraphale steps back a little to allow a passer-by with a camera a better vantage point.

“Cheers!” they say, and quickly snap the photo. “Enjoying your holiday, then?”

Aziraphale blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, sorry, are you local? It’s just…” They nod towards Crowley. “Looks like it’s your partner’s first time seeing London.”

Aziraphale blinks again. He thinks about how it felt, just a few hours ago, as he walked out of the garden with Crowley, knowing they had the rest of their lives ahead of them. It was like a veil shrouding the world had finally been lifted.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says faintly. He watches Crowley smile serenely at the skyline. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

He drifts back to Crowley again. The time, Aziraphale reaches for his hand first. When Crowley turns to him, the sun lights up his now delightfully dishevelled looking hair. It reminds Aziraphale of Rome, and how he had looked at Crowley, and thought: _all I want is to see the world with **you**_.

“Kiss me?”

Crowley starts. His lips curl up into a surprised, fond smile. “With the view and everything?” he says, half-hushed, half-wonderstruck laughter. “What are we, a pair of tourists?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathes, and reaches up as Crowley’s hand cups his cheek.

As they kiss, Aziraphale reasons that the phrase _ineffable_ perfection is not quite accurate. After all, Crowley is with him. He knows exactly why the moment is perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! <3 Finished this on probably the last little heatwave-weekend of the year, how appropriate. I have 3 fics coming out some time over next Friday/weekend as part of do it with style events' BT Tower Telephone event, very much looking forward to it.
> 
> thanks again to @mollydobby, may your fic-pitching talents ever prosper (I'll get through some more, just you wait! :P)

**Author's Note:**

> endless thanks to [mollydobby](https://mollydobby.tumblr.com) for excellent fic pitching skills-- more credit/aka pinching of her excellent Aziraphale lines will be clear in a future part ;)
> 
> A few more scene tags etc will be added as we go-- I sincerely promise only a teeny bit of angst amongst the banter. <3


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